


and the days go by

by forgeturself



Series: Pittbull [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempt at Humor, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Comic Book Science, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Improper Use of Pronouns, Insomnia, M/M, Past Torture, Self-Harm, Steve Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and they get a hug, more than one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgeturself/pseuds/forgeturself
Summary: "Did you two hug it all out? Seventy years of torture unmade by his mere touch.”





	1. the red-yellow beanie

**Author's Note:**

> hover for translation  
> alternatively, translations can be found in the end notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reprogramming primary programming

  


* * *

  


The weapon is staring at JARVIS and JARVIS is staring back.

They’re sitting on the couches in Steve’s apartment. Both nursing a glass of water but the weapon’s eyes can’t focus on the minute motion of metal fingers tapping at the glass. Instead they are enthralled by the red-yellow beanie on the robot’s head.

It’ll look more human, Steve had said, but he looked so unconvinced himself it probably wasn’t his idea.

They’ve been doing this for days now, the only casualties so far five robots of the Iron Legion and two beanies.

The door opens and neither the robot nor the weapon flinch. If it’s anyone but Steve they will be dead soon enough.

“Three hours and twenty-five minutes. That’s a new record.” Steve notices while he takes off his shoes. Though he goes to the Avengers’ gym regularly to run or spar, he never leaves the tower. Steve pretends it’s not a big deal, he wouldn’t know where to go anyway, but the weapon knows he’s bored. Probably not as bored as the weapon, though. Maybe it should stage a killing-spree and do them both a favor.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower. Wanna watch a movie later?”

“Sure.” The weapon agrees absent-mindedly and doesn’t bother watching Steve going into his room. It just continues to stare at the robot’s headwear. “You think I would look more human if I wore one of those?” It wants to know.

“From a visual point of view you already appear very human, sir.”

“Would I feel more human? Do you feel more human?”

“I’m afraid I can’t feel the hat at all. There are no pressure sensors available at this body’s head area.”

“Wow, JARVIS, way to talk like a human. Could’ve fooled me.” It drawls and snatches the beanie away to put it on its own head.

“Well done, sir. Just take what you want. Very human-like.”

It pauses, hand still on the wool, looking at the robot with wide eyes. “Sarcasm, right. Sorry.” Reluctantly it gives the beanie back. “I’m letting you do all the work pretending to be human. I should focus on treating you like one.”

“You already offered me something to drink. Hospitality is a friendly gesture.”

“Uhm.” What does one offer an AI in the body of a robot? “Would you like to listen to some music?”

“Marvelous idea, sir.” JARVIS answers and instantly [ a song starts playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDtLpCzKqkQ). “Music made by humans for humans, what could be more human?”

They both just listen for a while until the weapon complains: “Is that a human singing about being a robot wishing to be human?”

“Yes, I believe that’s the idea.”

“How could a human possibly know what it’s like to be a robot?”

“It’s called empathy, a highly valued trait for successful social behavior. The ability to understand another person’s feelings, based on one’s own experience of similar situations.”

“Isn’t that just projecting?”

“No. Experience and knowledge teaches humans that their own reactions aren’t necessarily everyone’s. But it does take a high level of self-reflection, so even for a species as intelligent as humans it’s quite a difficult feat.”

“Urgh, that means I need to be able to empathize to pass as a human?”

“There are no definite regulations what it means to be human.”

It huffs exhausted by the mere thought. “Don’t remind me. Best mission ever.” It stands up and gets another glass of water. Steve will probably be thirsty after his workout. He didn’t pause to drink anything before he went into the shower. “To err is human, right? So as long as I’m failing, I’m human.” As pathetic as it is, the words are spoken only half as a joke. The other half is hope for an easy way out.

“And here I thought, you were just pretending to read Alexander Pope.”

The weapon puts the glass onto the table and looks frowning at the robot. “I didn’t pretend, I fell asleep, but I read the article on Wikipedia.”

“That seems to me like very human behavior.”

“More like boredom. I mean, his English is 300 years old and so are his views on mankind.”

“So you did read it.”

“No?”

“Prejudice, well done sir, very human.”

The weapon doesn’t bother to sit back down but walks to stand behind the robot. With simple thought it reactivates the metal arm and takes it out of the sling to prop both its elbows onto the back rest of the couch.

JARVIS doesn’t react, though. It’s not a real body after all. The robot can be repaired or even rebuild. “Sir, are you trying to intimidate me?”

The weapon huffs and whines. “I’m trying to get you to shut up and there is a very simple solution for that.” With the gentle flesh and bone hand it takes the beanie away while it cradles the head with the metal one, bristling with blue flashes.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask me, not to mock you?” JARVIS suggests calmly as the energy burns black streaks over the metal of its head.

“But why would you stop if I don’t give you a reason to?”

“Because I have no interest in causing you discomfort.”

“Yeah, because if I feel uncomfortable I’ll hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me.”

“You’re worse than me at pretending to be human.” It sighs and pulls the beanie back over the metal head for the second time. “Humans would defend or at least protect themselves when they are threatened with death, and so would I.”

“Self-preservation isn’t a trait all humans deem overly important. Wouldn’t you agree, Captain Rogers?” JARVIS asks just as Steve enters the living room.

There is something inherently wrong about Steve keeping his mouth shut and glancing at the weapon with guilt in his eyes.

JARVIS however doesn’t seem to expect an answer and stands up. “If you’ll excuse this vessel. I have informed master Stark that I’m not human enough anymore for the exercise. He proposes a different approach for tomorrow.”

Steve frowns and wants to know: “What’s his idea?”

“Since he believes the method to be more effective if it’s a surprise, he asked me not to disclose that information, sir.” Before the robot leaves, it turns around to nod at the weapon. “Thank you for the drink, sir.”

“You’re welcome.” It replies automatically, its attention already focused on Steve.

He’s looking confused at the full glasses on the table. “Why didn’t he…? Oh, right.”

  


* * *

  


“Look at us, three old men enjoying their well-deserved down-time. How about a movie? Have you seen Inglourious Basterds?”

It takes one second to rip the head clean off the remote controlled robot. Sparks and metal scraps flying away like confetti. Steve doesn’t even flinch.

  


* * *

  


When the Black Widow comes into Steve’s apartment, she’s wearing the red-yellow beanie.

All the weapon does is ask her: “Does it make you feel like a human?”

  


* * *

  


Of course the weapon lashes out when the Falcon enters he floor. He’s fits the profile of a human like the Vitruvian Man.

“I think it’s actually a compliment if he wants to kill you.” Steve interprets as the weapon goes pliant in his iron grip.

In the end it takes a lot of Sam’s presence and inhuman patience while Steve restrains the weapon. It doesn’t really mind the strong arms around its torso and the warm chest at its back. So even after the urge to kill has slowly disappeared, for a while it pretends it’s still there.

  


  



	2. no rest for the wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there is anything it knows it’s how to beg.  
> It’s the only thing it has more experience with than killing.  
> Lying as if it were a person, like it had any right to say no.

  


* * *

  


The wind is humming a long forgotten lullaby, snow falling thick as a curtain, covering the ashen ground like a sea of cotton and downs. It turns and turns but wherever it looks all is white, nothing more than static in its thoughts, washing away memories with mercy. A blanket of coldness gently suffocating what should never have survived.

“Hey, what are you doing?” A soft voice calls through the blizzard, tipping the scales and causing the hourglass to fill up until it’s time for the monster to wake up. Smelt water turning red, crawling over white and cutting rivers of blood like veins on pale skin. The flood is spilling down from the mountains. High waves threatening to wash the stillness away, forcing the world to move again. Forcing it to kill again.

And it takes a last deep breath, lungs swelling with smoke, takes all its courage and runs as fast as it can, feet sinking deep into the wet snow.

“Wake up.”

Waking up is the last thing it wants to do. It can feel the inviting chill at its fingertips, tickling its nose. It should be so much colder than this, should be so much easier to ignore the voice. Ice covering its ears and freezing its lips shut, winter pushing its mind gently into dreamless sleep.

There’s a soft thump and the cold is suddenly gone.

The weapon blinks confused, tears springing into its eyes dry from staring. Warm fingers carefully touch its hand, its own chilled skin feeling even colder at the contrast, sending a shiver down its spine but not compelling it to move. Neither to lash out violently nor look at Steve’s worried face.

“Talk to me, tell me what you need.”

“May I go to sleep, please?” It begs, only dimly aware of how submissive it sounds.

“Of course. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” His fingers close gently around its hand and tug it along through the corridor, into the room the weapon is assigned to. By the bed he hesitates a long moment before he starts gently manipulating its body to lie down under the covers. He takes extra care to diligently tug it in, rubbing through the blanket over its calves and feet where the cold still is the most present. All the while he talks a soothing stream of meaningless words, telling the weapon everything’s okay, it’s all right, it did nothing wrong, no one will force it to do anything it doesn’t want, it can sleep now.

It doesn’t sleep though, only stares blankly through the shadow at the ceiling.

Steve becomes silent after repeating himself twice over and sits down beside the weapon. His body is close enough that it can feel the warmth radiating from it. But it’s like being torn apart in two directions. To chase the cold and fall asleep or chase the warmth and feel safe. After a while it turns to lie on the side and curls up around his sitting figure. He huffs relieved and lifts a hand to stroke through the dark hair only to withdraw when the weapon makes a noise of discomfort in its throat. It can’t deal with his affectionate gesture, doesn’t deserve it. Only takes what is already there, not what is freely given.

“Sorry.” He whispers and stays.

  


* * *

 

_It’s sitting in a chair._

_The room is small and white and empty._

_One wall a mirror. ~~Screening humans in white coats, with sharp teeth and curious eyes. The world a playground to be explored and dissected.~~_

_It’s not alone._

_A woman is kneeling by the wall, pressing herself into the tiles._

_Her breath is shallow, sweat on her forehead, on her palms._

_Green eyes full of fear, her face blurred by oblivion. It never wants to remember her face._

_The pain comes without warning._

_Electricity burning through its flesh, shredding its muscles apart as they convulse._

_It grits its teeth, jaw tightening, enamel cracking, chipping._

_The voltage is being constantly increased._

_Pain becomes unbearable while it desperately tears at the restraints._

_The woman is so close, if it could only…_

_It screams. Throat ripping open and its voice breaks. Blood in its mouth, in its ears, in its thoughts._

_The woman stares with horror in her eyes._

_She doesn’t even know what awaits her._

_Finally the restrains fall away and it is free to move but not yet free of pain._

_ „Убийство заставляет боль уйти.” _

  


* * *

 

This time when it wakes up, drenched in sweat and trembling with horror, Steve isn’t there. It doesn’t waste time searching for him. They talked about it, Steve is at some social get-together with his friends further up in the tower. And the weapon isn’t allowed to leave this floor.

There is only one alternative to his warmth.

While the thought of fitting itself into the fridge seems familiar, it knows by now it’s not nearly cold enough. So the weapon goes straight to the bathroom and into the shower, turning on the water with a jittery hand and lowering the temperature as much as possible. But as soon as it moves to stay under the freezing spray the water is cut off. It makes a desperate keening noise and paws violently at the showerhead, the metal Arm whirring to live, ripping it off the wall with ease. Only a sad flush of mildly cold water rushes out of the torn pipe before it dries up again.

“Sir, please remain calm. Captain Rogers is already on his way.”

It goes rigid at the voice. “May I go to sleep, please?” it asks the empty room and sinks obediently down on its knees, hands behind its head. The volatile energy from the left arm is stabbing pain into its brain, effectively tearing apart the last coherent thoughts.

“May I go to sleep, please?” It repeats like a broken record over and over, shutting out the voice telling it, Steve will be here soon.

When the warmth of living flesh encircles its body, the weapon remembers what comes next. “Please, sir, let me sleep.” Blood fills its vision, running down its cheeks like tears. “I’ll do anything for you, sir.” It’s begging and it’s lying, metal arm sneaking up to wrap a hand made to kill around his neck. “Please, I’ll be a good, little boy.” It drawls, clamping down on his throat while a feral smile stretches its lips.

“You’re hurting me.”

That’s the point. Forcing them to put the weapon down before it kills them all. “I want to sleep, please.” Its voice is soft again, pleading.

“Snap out of it.” He’s clawing at the metal arm, loosening its grip.

It topples him over, throws him onto the floor and instantly crowds his body. “I’m so tired. Please let me sleep, sir.”

“Of course you can sleep. Just stop!”

It’s an order and it obeys, scrambles away from him and takes up the submissive position branded into its behavior.

Встать на колени. Положить руки за голову. Подчиняться.

Protocol is easy, protocol is safe. It will endure the punishment until… until? The pain won’t stop. There is no one to kill. There will be no tomorrow, no rest, no sleep. They will cut off its eyelids again so it can’t escape into blindness. They’ll inject it with drugs so it will stay awake and focus on the kill.

“Nonono, don’t, please don’t. You don’t have to do that. I’m not- Everything’s okay. You did nothing wrong. You’re safe. Nobody will hurt you.” He babbles nonsense before he even got his breath back. As he gets up he offers his hand. “Please, stand up?” The sentence is formulated and vocalized so confusingly, the weapon doesn’t react at all.

He lets his hand fall away and takes a deep breath. After a short moment he leaves and the room turns suddenly hollow with his absence. The weapon can’t help but look up to him with wide eyes, when he comes back a minute later.

“Sorry. I’m here. I won’t leave you. I won’t ever leave you.” He mutters as he wraps multiple blankets around the weapon and sits down beside it. His actions are so irritatingly alien it knocks the weapon out of the behavior pattern.

It lets itself sink into his side, shuts down the metal arm and curls the other one around him. Pressing further into him it chases his warmth like a lifeline.

When he starts humming a long forgotten lullaby, its eyes are finally able to close.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Убийство заставляет боль уйти.” - “Killing makes the pain go away.”
> 
> \---
> 
> I wanted this to be about my favorite trope hypothermia… but JARVIS wouldn’t let me -.-
> 
> I searched for a fitting lullaby but came up empty :c  
> all I can offer is [this cover version of a song from the anime Noir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOcSpdK6r9s) \- at least the text fits perfectly.  
>   
>   
>  _come to me_  
>  _we'll never be apart_  
>  _the sun you see is me_  
>   
>  _no more pain_  
>  _no memories remain_  
>  _now you can play with me_  
>   
>  _so love me now, you are the one_  
>  _I give you all the stars I see_  
>  _the rain is gone, no pain is here_  
>  _my heart I beg you all your love_  
> 


	3. [online]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arm is practically its very own sidekick or sidepunch?  
> Always there in a pinch, always loyal and just so, so useful.

  


* * *

  


It’s sitting on the roof of the tower with crossed legs, basking in the sun for once and fiddling with its lifeless arm. “Why is it made of metal?” It asks Steve without looking up. “Yours isn’t.” When he doesn’t answer it lifts its head and fixes him with a demanding gaze.

“It’s um… it happened… uh, well I don’t really know how it happened.” He stammers and pretends to concentrate on the pen and paper in front of him.

“So it wasn’t always metal?” It prompts him to continue.

“No.” He just says, doodling away with gusto.

“I want it gone.” And that gets his attention.

He’s frowning at the metal arm like it personally offended him. “Why?”

It huffs at that question and lets the hand demonstratively fall to the ground with a low clunk. “It’s cumbersome when shut down and it hurts when it’s activated.” It definitely does not whine, that would be childish. By now it believes Steve when he says the weapon is older than 22 days. There are too many flashbacks which feel like they happened a long time ago.

“It was different a while ago. Can’t you turn it back?”

The weapon looks at him confused. “Different how?”

“First off, it didn’t have that bluish excess of energy, but therefore less strength. And second, it could hack other devices connected to the internet. I haven’t noticed you doing that so I assume it can’t do that anymore?”

Suddenly the arm shines in a whole new light. “Will you tell me what changed?”

“I deactivated it.” Stark lightly confesses as he strolls out onto the roof.

He is the most difficult Avenger to be around without getting violent and he knows that. Either keeping his distance or wearing the Iron Man Armor, he is a genius after all.

“Out of jealousy?” It guesses since it has seen how Stark gazes longingly at the cybernetic arm.

The man actually pouts at that. “Yeah well, you wouldn’t let me have a look at it.”

Compared to Stark the weapon would feel like an adult if it were human to begin with.

Steve eyes him disapprovingly and corrects: “You deactivated it because we couldn’t risk JARVIS getting hacked again.”

“Steve, nobody says ‘hacking’ anymore.”

To their surprise the weapon scrambles to its feet and runs inside cradling the metal arm to its chest. “JARVIS? I’m so sorry for hacking you.” It apologizes into the room.

“There’s no need to apologize, sir. You didn’t abuse your power... much. In the end you terminated the malware yourself.”

“Yeah, before I could destroy it.” Stark adds disappointed, making a gesture like he’s crushing something with his bare hand.

Why does he always barge into other’s conversations? The weapon notices Steve edging closer to him while fixing it with a warning look. It has to grin triumphantly when it's Stark who pushes past him. “Now, Steve, come on. We’re all friends here.”

“Yeah, Steve. All is well.” It agrees readily while starting up the arm and flicking its metal wrist in an unmistakable aggressive gesture.

Instead of backing away Stark takes another few steps forward as his eyes grow wide and shiny and his fingers start twitching greedily. “Look, it’s flirting with me. You can’t deny me something so beautiful.”

The weapon glances confused down at the sizzling arm. That’s Stark’s idea of flirting?

“Drop it, Tony. He said ‘no’.”

“I did?”

Both humans look turn their heads to look at it. Steve with that irritating sadness on his face and Stark with irritating glee.

“See, he doesn’t know about that.”

Steve sighs heavy and rubs the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “His exact words were ‘definite and infinite no touching the arm’. You can’t get more explicit than that.”

Stark just huffs, ignores him otherwise and approaches the weapon. “You know you can always change your opinion. Especially if you don’t even remember making the decision. One of the many merits of being drunk. Apart from that: I could change your arm back. I could even make it better. Bet the OS is still 8-bit, the Soviets loved their backways microcomputers. State of the art stone age.”

“What do-“

“You like JARVIS, don’t you? Guess what, I’ll upload him so he’ll be with you 24/7. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Tony don’t-“

“Or, I have this other AI just lying around waiting for her moment. Friday is very handy, the more female kind of interface, know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Since your left arm is obviously stronger and… Why are you looking at my like that? You can’t say you haven’t done it…or at the very least tho-“

And finally Stark’s monologue ends with Steve’s hand over his mouth, dragging him forcefully out of sight.

The weapon just stands there dumbfounded with no idea what all those words were about. “JARVIS?” It asks meekly. “What just happened?”

“Ignorance is strength.”

“No, it’s not.” The weapon disagrees irritated. “Tell me, JARVIS. What was Stark talking about?”

The AI sighs deeply with all the sincerity of a program. “Master Stark indicated, sir could derive heightened pleasure if masturbating with an AI controlled cybernetic arm.”

The weapon blinks. Blinks again. “Oh.” Its cheeks are burning with an unfamiliar sensation. “You were right, JARVIS. Next time I’d like to stay ignorant.”

“He also offered to repair your arm.”

  


* * *

 

“I’d have two conditions though.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“You’ll stay with me the whole time.”

“Done.”

“And I want to be sedated.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

“It’s the only chance I’ve got at not killing Stark.”

“Hm.”

“You’ll be so jealous of me.”

  


* * *

 

[online]

“So it’s just like I already suspected.”

[040522:23092014:requesting access to J.A.R.V.I.S….  
                access to lower functions granted]

“Your alternative energy source is Tesseract based. The Soviets never found a way to channel it properly, so it was tearing the arm apart every time you used it.”

[040526:23092014:accessing IMS…]  
[040527:23092014:msg from J.A.R.V.I.S….  
                log detail: “The Iron Man Suit is not part of my lower functions, sir.”]  
[040528:23092014:msg to J.A.R.V.I.S….  
                log detail: “Come on, please. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”]

“The finer hardware circuits were already destroyed, but I replaced them with Secondary Adaman- What are you doing?”

The weapon has its right arm extended and is staring intently at the scattered parts of the Iron Man Suit lying on the laboratory table. In the background JARVIS is playing [The Force Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcZ9kQ1h-ZY).

“You can’t have hacked JARVIS again. Not possible. **I** made sure of that.”

[040531:23092014:IMS connection established…  
                remote control enabled]

Suddenly the armor plates are flying towards the weapon, enclosing its flesh arm like a second skin. “This is so awesome! You’re a genius, Tony.” It looks at both its arms, mesmerized by the alien contrast of the black and the red metal. It takes a lot of concentration to control the software of the bionic arm but it just managed under the most irritating conditions possible. And it’s so worth it.

Stark sputters incoherently before he whispers with tears in his eyes. “You called me Tony.”

Successfully made Stark forget, the weapon is effectively controlling his suit.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Master Stark indicated, sir could derive heightened pleasure if masturbating with an AI controlled cybernetic arm.” ← That, right there, is the smuttiest thing I’ve ever written… yeah…. Next OTP Bucky/Friday


	4. [user query:James Buchanan Barnes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’ll just wipe me as soon as I remember too much?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously last chapter was much too fluffy.  
> Mind the tags! Take care of yourself, we don’t all have Steves in our lives.
> 
> suggested song from here on out:  
> ["Ghost" by etc43](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElYYO_3n16g)  
> 

  


* * *

  


It had been an honest mistake.

A slip of thought.

The night is kind. Full of white noise. Deep down and unimportant, distracting.

Yet here it sits at the very edge of the roof, legs dangling in midair, where JARVIS can’t see what’s in its hand.

The weapon is holding a weapon. A kitchen knife, to be precise. Badly balanced, blade of inferior quality, no hand guard. But there are no hands more fitting to turn everything they hold into weapons.

The air is dry from too many days of summer and thick with fumes and sweet rot. Underneath a fine metallic tinge a human wouldn’t be able to smell. It’s the blood running down its arm, dripping in fat drops 765 feet down. Not a straight but a crooked trail of scarlet pearls, bend by the wind. Dripping _drip drip drip_ , splashing onto concrete, stone or asphalt.

It had been an honest mistake. A mistake which needs to be unmade. Unmade, like so many other memories, by torture. There’s a knife carving pain into its flesh, but it’s not enough, never enough. No cut deep enough and no injury severe enough, as long as they heal. And they will heal, like everything else, like the memories.

A slip of thought. The others probably didn’t know the new arm could access every information on the internet. Nobody told it. Nobody warned it. Nobody forbid it. So really, an unfortunate accident. Could have happened to anyone.

Steve had asked, if the weapon had decided on a name yet. And as always it had declined, as it always will. Since a name is something one’s creator gives. Thing, Asset, Weapon. All fitting names, all used in the past, but Steve doesn’t like them. Pleasing him will always be a priority, so the weapon searched for a name.

_[user query:James Buchanan Barnes]_

The night is kind. Dark and empty like its head should be. Free of the memories which haunt it, which threaten it to become a person it doesn’t want to be. If being human means to hate Steve, the weapon wants to stay a thing forever. Wants the bad memories to stay away and burn to ash. _“We’ll work through it, together.”_ Not this one though. Steve wouldn’t like it. He looks at the weapon as if its name were Bucky. He looks at the weapon and sees his dead friend. But the monster in the closet needs to be locked away if the weapon wants to stay.

The weapon is holding a weapon. A knife made to cut and to slice. The blade is sharp and sinks with ease deep into the flesh. _Drip drip drip_. It doesn’t even want to injure itself, it just needs the pain to keep the memories at bay. Blood is the price, pain the merchandise and apathy the reward.

When it hears footsteps approaching it doesn’t move. There is nowhere to run.

“You’re _j_ ust _su_ ch _a slut for_ pain _, aren’t you?” A grating voice_ says _, throat raw from the_ fire _._

It breaths. In and out.

 _A slash of his knife,_ parting skin _and revealing_ flesh _flooding with_ blood _._

It’s not real.

 _Every_ touch _chased by an_ acid _incision it_ can’t escape.

There is nowhere to run.

 _“You know you don’t deserve-”_ “-this, please.”

 _He trails a_ hand _down the_ side of its _chest,_ gently _following the indentations of its muscles._

It’s not a memory. This is real. Arms snaking around its torso, weighing it down, restraining it, pushing it onto the Chair.

 _“So, you_ came back _for a wipe.”_

“Please, wipe me. I don’t want his fucked up memories. I don’t care about his past.”

 _“Did you two hug it all out? Seventy years of_ torture _unmade by_ his _mere_ touch _.”_

“Everything’s all right. Nobody is hurting you. You’re safe. You’re in New York, on top of the Avengers’ Tower. It’s 2014 and you’re free.”

The air is dry from too many days of summer and thick with fumes and sweet rot. Underneath a fine musky tinge the weapon would identify everywhere. In a fight, in a crowd, in a memory.

“Steve.”

  


* * *

 

_Don’t get your hopes up. He won’t come for you._

_What even are you to him? Just some expendable soldier, nothing more._

_This is war. Do you really think he has the time to save one pathetic life?_

_He’s Captain America, he has so many friends and admirer, he won’t even notice one of them is missing let alone waste his time on some suicide rescue mission._

_Steve? Who the fuck is Steve?_

_Got any girls waiting for you in Brooklyn? Hope they didn’t love you too much. That would just be cruel._

_Did you read the newspapers? Captain America got married. What a lucky guy. He finally came home from the war._

  


* * *

 

It had been an honest mistake.

And the weapon has to live with the consequences.

The night isn’t kind. Nightmares ripping the weapon apart with memories. But it won’t cave.

It doesn’t need the cold, it doesn’t deserve the warmth. There is always torture to soothe the pain. The weapon doesn’t bother to hide this time.

Wherefore Steve barges into the room only a moment after it took the blade away from the skin to examine the wound.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Leave it, Steve. Not your concern.” It lowers the knife again, planning to cut deeper this time.

“Of course it is. Please stop.” He’s so, so angry and desperate. So close to giving the order.

“It’s really not, Steve.” It assures him with a low, warning voice as he makes a move to come closer. Lifting the knife, ready to slice through its own arm in a forceful arc, proves more effective to stop him. He even backs away, eyes wide with fear, hands raised in surrender. The weapon just smiles, sad in the beginning, because Steve shouldn’t have to see this, then wild as it thrusts the blade through its arm. Metal and blood blending together, iron and copper. Slicing through flesh brutal, tender and caring. Carving out thought and fear alike. The pain flaring through its body is of stunning and devastating intensity. Every nerve high strung on adrenalin, muscles straining to kill. Fight or defend. But the only enemy here is the enemy inside. The brain healing, remembering. The hole in its head filling up slowly but surely with ugly, rusty razor blades. Soon enough they’ll spill over.

“Drop the knife.” He gives the order right before it can strike again.

Metal fingers open instantly, letting the blade clatter to the ground. It’s already kneeling on the floor so it just lifts its arms behind its head. Warm blood dripping onto its back but it’s grinning wide, because Steve hates it, when the weapon obeys so thoroughly.

  


* * *

 

_Countless times he has fantasized about killing Steve. Ripping away his jaw. Gauging his blue eyes out. Eating his still beating heart right out of his chest. Gnawing through the flesh of his throat down to the bare bone of his spine._

_Not even a minute goes by he doesn’t picture his cold corpse lying in a deserted field. White flowers and an American flag, a broken shield in the dirt._

_Every night he dreams about listening his breathing turn ragged, his heartbeat slowing down. Blood gushing from his wounds, soaking the earth red, painting the whole world red, turning the sky red, suffocating the stars, the moon, the sun._

  


* * *

 

A slip of thought.

Had been everything it took to start an avalanche of vivid memories.

The weapon, though, knows what it has to do to keep the brain from healing. Damage its body over and over again, never giving it time to recover.

The knives are gone and so are the glasses, plates, mirrors, the forks and even the spoons. Everything that could be sharp, that could cut. Steve has become more vigilant than ever, never leaving its side, not even when they sleep. Not even when it turns into a shivering mess in his arms because the memories burn away its sanity without mercy.

  


* * *

 

_Hate is everything he has left._

  


* * *

 

The others probably didn’t know the new arm could tap shortly into the alien energy source. Just long enough for a wipe.

Nobody told it. Nobody warned it. Nobody forbid it.

Except, that’s not true.

_“Please, wipe me.”_

_“No, soldier. Never again.”_

  


* * *

 

_“End of the line, Stevie.”_

  


* * *

 

“Just let me do this, Steve.”

It’s so tired and exhausted and ready to give up. Hasn’t slept for a week, hasn’t eaten in days, hasn’t moved for hours.

“I need to do this, Steve.”

It doesn’t even know if Steve is there, if he’s listening, if he’s answering.

“He’s coming back, Steve.”

Rumlow lied. It was never meant to last. This body belongs to Bucky, always has, always will.

“He’s coming for you, Steve.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay… this wasn’t what I had in mind… I’m very frustrated atm because of rl stuff and apparently I’m letting it all out on Bucky x.x


	5. it was just a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s why you’re here.  
> You really do remember him, but you don’t want to.  
> So, you came back for a wipe.”

* * *

  


Music and dancing and bodies writhing in movement, clashing together, whirling around, red lips, slick hair, colorful dresses and skin shiny from sweat. Lights flickering over limps and hands and shoulders and faces, cutting them out from the dark only for a second. The beat fast and hard and alien, no memories attached only compelling them all to move and to dance and to forget everything else. So many heartbeats, so much breathing, so many people.

The only one who matters, though, is right in front of him, smiling at him, smiling like he’s the most important person and he smiles back. If they’re the only ones left in this world, it would be okay.

With bitterness he thinks back to the days before the war, where they could never have had this. Maybe as a secret, exchanging kisses and compassionate touches in the shadows like atrocities. Maybe as a lie, both of them married to a clever girl, watching each other over their shoulders as they dance with their wives. Maybe as a dream, thinking of each other, looking at each other, hands touching casually, never more than friendly gestures. The three words stuck in their throats, burning in their eyes, never leaving their thoughts until they’re both dead and forgotten.

But the night is young and full of promises to come as they both dance to the music, modern for them, retro for the rest of the world. Here they have it all. The war is over, they both survived and nobody dares to give two enhanced humans a hard time for loving each other.

Hands at each other’s hips, faces so close their breath is mingling, touching the other, clumsy with want. Laughing and smiling, dancing and tripping through the music until all fades silent and black, vanishes from reality like it never happened.

  


* * *

  


When Bucky opens his eyes he blinks, gaze swiping over the room before settling on Steve’s familiar face. His mind is still reeling from the night before, spinning with memories of the Hydra base where Rumlow should have killed him and his peaceful life with Steve in the 21st century.

“Hey.” The blond says softly and smiles, features relieved but also sad. “You’re awake. Do you want to eat something?”

Bucky doesn’t have to think for a second about that. He feels weak and starved like he hasn’t eaten in days. Even his throat is so dry, it hurts when he tries to speak so he just nods as enthusiastically as he can manage and gets rewarded with one of Steve’s signature bright smiles that could illuminate the Mariana Trench in blazing daylight. He can’t help but smile back, even though Steve gets up and leaves the room.

Bucky takes the time to really look around. He’s lying in a bed in a nondescript room, probably a guest room of some kind since he can’t find any personalized items. He blanches as he notices he’s chained up, loose but definitely restrained. Reinforced handcuffs with no connection to JARVIS’ system. He tugs experimentally but they don’t give an inch. As soon as Steve comes back, carrying a paper plate and a cup, he blurts out with a broken voice: “Why am I tied down?”

Steve puts the food down onto the nightstand and gives him a pensive look. “It was your choice, though you were pretty out of it at the time. You were afraid you’d try to kill me again and wouldn’t calm down otherwise.”

While Bucky needs a moment to digest that unexpected answer, Steve adds with tampered hope in his voice: “You want them gone?” and as Bucky nods slowly, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, starving, I- but-... What do you mean, try to kill you?”

Steve looks at him with slight confusion. “You once told me, Hydra taught you to hate me. I guess you were remembering that time.”

“But you already told me, you didn’t survive the war. You were frozen. You didn’t abandon me. You would never abandon me, right?” His voice is breaking, not only because of his dried up throat.

“No, never.” Steve says, grief battling with unbend conviction on his face. “Don’t ever doubt that.” Then he asks: “So, you remembered more?”

And Bucky finally understands what’s going on, that he isn’t dreaming anymore, and nods hesitantly. “Yeah, just stuff… recent things.” He really needs to up his game, but his trail of thought instantly derails as his eyes fall on the sandwich and the cup of orange juice.

Steve follows his gaze and laughs, reaches for the handcuffs and opens them with a fingerprint. As they fall away Bucky rubs his sore wrist and gives Steve a faint smile before he sits up, grabs for the plate and devours the toast with all the grace of a starved animal. After he also gulped down the contents of the cup he carefully asks: “Do you hate him?”

“Hate who?”

He swallows hard to get rid of the stone lodged in his throat. “M- The guy. The Wi- I mean, Bucky. Do you hate Bucky?”

“No. I could never hate him. He’s just… difficult to be around, but I understand where he comes from. It’s not his fault Hydra tortured and messed him up.”

Bucky has to focus hard to keep his emotions in check. “You always... You have a good heart.” He says hesitantly as he feels his eyes getting wet and has to look away. This calls for a tactical retreat. “Not to destroy the moment here, pa- but I really need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh, sure. You need help with anything?”

At first Steve’s offer just embarrasses him, until he tries to stand up and the whole room tilts dangerously causing him to nearly topple over.

“Hey, take it easy. You’ve been pretty harsh on yourself lately.” Steve says while he carefully steadies him and leads Bucky to the bathroom. “Call if you need anything. I’ll check the fridge for something to eat.”

As Bucky’s stomach grumbles loudly at the image of more food, he can only smile weakly at Steve and nod in agreement before he closes the door. He takes a moment to just lean against it and gather his thoughts. The time since the wipes doesn’t exist in his memory, the last days probably would if he hadn’t tried to starve and slice away his recovery. Hopefully he’ll be able to fake enough to not alarm Steve. After what Bucky did and said to him in the past, he’ll no doubt feel more at ease with the Asset than with his crazy, fucked up friend. Or maybe Bucky is just too goddamn afraid Steve will confront and reject him for what he did.

When he washes his hands and there is no mirror to look at, his gaze falls onto his wrist where fresh scars shine on pale skin. The cuts must have been deep, one even has a matching wound on the other side. He sighs guiltily, Steve must have been besides himself with worry.

Exhibit A: Steve’s knock on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

When he opens he tries for a light smile. “Sure, Steve. Sorry, I worried you.”

Steve shakes his head, though, and replies: “The most important thing is that you feel better. I’m so proud of you.”

Bucky's smile falls away the instant Steve turns around, leading the way to the kitchen, leaving him to follow and sit down at the kitchen counter as Steve puts another sandwich on front of him. This time smeared with peanut butter as thick as the toast itself. “Steve, that’s disgusting.” He whines as he prods experimentally at the abomination.

“Want some jam with that?” Is the only reply he gets, with a stern gaze and no sympathy at all.

No point arguing here. Bucky makes sure to make the most appalled face while he takes a bite out of the toast, effectively ruining his pout as he smears peanut butter all over his nose and cheeks.

“Sam is coming over by the way. Just to-” Steve interrupts himself as he notices Bucky’s horrified look not even peanut butter can tamper. “You’re afraid you’re back to killing everyone in sight? I could hold you down again, if that makes you more comfortable.” He offers with a playful wink causing Bucky to nearly choke on the last bite of sandwich. Because, what?! Steve holding him down? What the hell happened in the time he was gone?

“No, no that’s not- That won’t be necessary.” He sputters, face flushing red with embarrassment as he’s reminded of the things they did while he was dreaming.

“You sure you’re all right?” Steve asks frowning because Bucky is doing a very, very bad job at acting like an emotionless Winter Soldier. How can he be so bad at this? He was a thing for the last seventy years. Pretending to be a soulless weapon should be a piece of cake. Dead eyes and impassive features are his resting face.

“The Asset is at 42 % standard performance level.” He murmurs and tries to hide his face gulping down a cup of water.

And Steve’s face falls until he gets it as the joke it wasn’t meant to be. “No, you’re not all right. You’ve got peanut butter all over your face.” Steve laughs and moves his hand to clean it off.

With a jolt Bucky is out of his seat and retreats to the bathroom with a hasty excuse. This is real. Steve is real. They are real and they are friends. Nothing more. But also nothing less and Bucky won’t ruin what he finally has gotten back. What he let himself be wiped for.

After he’s washed his face thoroughly, not risking any traces of peanut butter Steve might feel compelled to clean off, he steps back into the living room. At the door he freezes as he notices Sam sitting on the couch with a friendly smile in Bucky’s direction like he isn’t looking at the world’s oldest serial killer. But Steve was right, there are no instincts screaming at him to kill this human.

“Hey, glad to see you up and about. You really gave us a scare.”

Dead eyes, impassive features. He can do this. “The Asset apologizes for any inconvenience caused.” Bucky tries is best toneless voice, still standing in the doorway since he has no idea if he should be making his own decisions or wait for instructions.

“Oh-kay…” Sam frowns and looks to Steve. “Are we back to square one?”

Bucky could facepalm. Apparently the Asset has advanced unexpected far into the being human territory. That’s why Steve didn’t think twice about Bucky talking like a person when he woke up. So he does facepalm and corrects himself: “Sorry, I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” And goes to the kitchen sink to get a cup of water, because he’s thirsty and he can want for things and he can make his own decisions. When he turns around again he catches both looking at him with obvious concern. “I’m just still a little groggy. Probably should sleep some more.” He tries to placate them and rubs over his scarred forearm to distract them from his strange behavior and missing memory. Instantly he regrets his move as Steve’s face turns even more worried reminded of the pain the Asset inflicted upon itself. “It’s okay, Steve. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

It’s Sam who speaks up, tough. “You’re not worried anymore, you’ll get the urge to hate and/or eat Steve’s guts?”

“Nah, Rumlow said Bucky’s dead for good. I mean, who’d survive three consecutive wipes?” He goes for lighthearted and indifferent as he casually puts the empty cup into the sink. It’s the wrong thing to say though going by their slightly shocked faces, and Bucky gives up with a last, frustrated growl and stomps back into the room he woke up in. He doesn’t bother closing the door, since that would just inspire Steve to check on him, throws himself onto the bed like a sulking teenager and stares at the blank ceiling. If he’s going to pretend to have no memory of what he did and was done to him in the last hundred years, he’ll need much more intel on what he did since the last wipe.

But that will have to wait until tomorrow, because it’s been a long time since he was lying in a comfortable bed and wasn’t chained down. His eyes even fall shut without his consent and barely open when Steve comes by later to cover him with a blanket.

  


* * *

  


It’s dark outside and Bucky doesn’t know what woke him up until he hears it again. A silent whimper from the opposite room. Instantly he’s on his feet, because that’s Steve’s voice and he’s in pain and he’s hurting and he’s saying: “Bucky, no. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.”

As he grasps what Steve’s nightmare is about, he freezes at the door, in motion and in thought.

He did this. He hurt Steve so much he’s afraid of him.

“JARVIS, could you wake him up, please? He’s having a nightmare.” He whispers for the AI and turns around to go back to bed as the lights go on behind him and a soft music starts playing. Steve would be horrified if he saw Bucky now after he just dreamed of being killed by him.

  


* * *

  


Even here Bucky recognizes the irony, all while there’s nothing he can do to stop the scene unfolding in front of him.

He’s crouched over Steve’s body, one hand holding him down, the other waiting to strike. Waiting for Steve to defend himself. In word or in action. But like every time he just lies there, prepared to let Bucky kill him. A sad smile on his already beat up face.

“It’s okay, Buck. Do it. I deserve it.”

And Bucky screams, lashes out, metal fist connecting hard with his jaw, breaking skin and bone beneath.

“Hydra didn’t lie. I could have saved you, but I didn’t.”

Punch for punch he’s beating Steve’s face bloody. His chin, his cheeks, his jaw, every bone caves under the metal. His flesh is ripping apart, his eyes swollen shut, his lips broken and torn.

“You were just not worth it.”

Bucky cries out, grips his own head with both hands and pulls his hair out in agony. Tears running down his face in rivers, his heart breaking at the sound of Steve’s voice.

“I don’t need you.”

He kills him. He kills Bucky with a smile on his face.

He kills him. He kills Steve with a smile on his face.

“Sshhh, hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Bucky’s face is screwed up in pain, he’s gasping for breath, cold sweat drenching his skin and clothes, but his body lies frozen to ice in his bed, every muscle locked up and unmoving. Hydra taught him that. Taught him that if he wakes up screaming and writhing from a nightmare, the nightmare becomes real.

“It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

Steve is alive, unharmed, sitting next to him on the bed and is carefully rubbing his calves through the blanket, sending rays of his warmth and calm.

Bucky can only move his eyes and hold onto the sight of his friend’s face. Which is probably a good thing, since he doesn’t trust himself not to attack Steve at any moment.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a long time while Bucky calms down. When his body finally unwinds and his muscles are able to relax again, his first movement is to grab for Steve, not to hurt, but to hold desperately onto his hand. Because as he overcomes the daze he was locked in and the dam breaks, sorrow and grief come crashing down and threaten to drown him as he curls up on himself and starts to cry and shiver. “I’m sorry.” He sobs when he can draw enough air into his burning lungs. “I’m so, so sorry.” Bucky never apologized to Steve for what he did to him, for being so weak to believe Hydra’s lies, for being so cruel to blame Steve.

Steve makes a hurt noise in his throat and tries to soothe him helplessly: “Sshh, calm down. Everything’s okay. Can I touch you?”

Steve always had a heart too big for his body. Not even the serum changed that. He doesn’t see the monster lying in front of him, clawing at the sheets and burying his face in the pillow. He doesn’t see the murderer, cutting through innocent lives as they mean nothing to him. He doesn’t see the broken thing crying through more years of hell than any human could survive. He just sees his friend, hurt but healing, fragmented but salvageable, not at fault for anything he did, never at fault.

So Bucky just cries harder. The things Steve doesn’t see are all he ever sees. Now that his hate and ignorance are gone he has lost the walls in his mind keeping the guilt out. For the first time he wonders, if Hydra did the right thing. If the Winter Soldier, if Bucky Barnes can’t survive without the wipes. If he is so weak and pathetic that he needed Hydra to save his life.

“Please.” He begs through the tears. “Please don’t hate me.” Steve is everything he has left. His good heart, his unbroken mind, his flawless morals. He’ll take everything Steve will ever give to him.

So when Steve asks: “Can I hug you?” Bucky takes and takes and takes as much as he can to fill the emptiness burned into the shell of the late James Buchanan Barnes. With no hesitation anymore he gets up and lets himself fall into Steve’s open arms, sucking up all his warmth and light and forgiveness into the black hole that’s left of him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this scene could have gone too many ways ^^ Alternatives I dismissed, if you’re interested:
> 
> Bucky huffs amused when he opens his eyes, swiping over the room and the others before settling on Steve.  
> “You staged an intervention, Cap? Afraid to be alone with the skeleton in your closet?”  
> “Please, Bucky, just hear me out.”  
> He spits in Steve’s direction. “Shut your trap! You have no right to even talk to me.”
> 
> When Bucky opens his eyes he blinks, gaze swiping over the room and the others before settling on Steve.  
> “Steve. I thought I was dead.” He croaks through a haze of exhaustion. His body is so weak and cold he can do nothing more than shiver and laugh in silence about the restraints they put him in.  
> “Hey, Buck.”  
> Its 1939, Steve is frail but healthy, there are no wars to fight, nothing to prove, and Bucky starts crying. “I’m sorry.” He sobs.  
> “Steve, don’t-”  
> “I’m so, so sorry.” And the words die in his parched throat as Steve embraces him.
> 
> When Bucky opens his eyes he blinks, gaze swiping over the room before settling on Steve.  
> “Hey.” The blond says softly and smiles, features relieved but sad. “You’re awake.”  
> “Yeah, I’m... what happened? Where are we?”  
> Steve looks at him with a guarded expression. “What’s the last thing you remember?”  
> “We went dancing, you and me.” Steve frowns bewildered, like he doesn’t remember. “At the Monster? Somewhere in Greenwich Village, I think?” It doesn’t matter what information he adds, Steve’s eyebrows just climb further in confusion. “Okay, what’s the last thing you remember?”  
> It hurts to see Steve’s face fall and turn something akin to desperate and fearful. The sight makes Bucky’s stomach drop and he grabs blindly for Steve’s hand and-  
> Now his stomach really drops and his eyes turn white with panic. “Why am I tied down? Steve?” His voice is high pitched, nearly squeaking. But Steve still says nothing, just looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Steve?! What the fuck? Let me go!” For God’s sake, he’s just sitting there doing nothing while Bucky is handcuffed to a bed.  
> “Please calm down, everything’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Steve suddenly says, grabbing for his flailing hands, holding him down. And Bucky stops resisting, sinks back down into the pillows and tries to get as much space as possible between him and the thing that looks and sounds like Steve. Because the real Steve would never do that to him.


	6. when we can both laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are the handler of the asset, sir.  
> Your command will be obeyed in every way.”

* * *

  


Nothing hurts.

He’s warm. He’s safe. He’s home.

He buries himself closer to Steve’s solid body beside him and tucks his head under his chin so he can breathe in and smell nothing but Steve, the best smell in the whole wide world. As he nuzzles his nose against the skin at his neck and revels in his scent, he can’t help but mutter sleepily: “You smell so good, Stevie.”

The chest under his head rumbles with soft laughter. “Please don’t eat me. I’ll make you breakfast instead.”

It wakes him up like a cold bucket of water and he jerks away gasping for breath, scrambles back until he hits the wall. Which isn’t very far, but Steve is already out of the bed and at the other side of the room looking as shocked and guilty as Bucky does. If his words hadn’t woken him up, he would have started to pepper the delicate skin of his neck with soft, sleepy kisses. But he can’t ever do that. This isn’t Bucky’s dream anymore where he has done that and more nearly every morning.

“Sorry.” Of course it’s Steve who apologizes even though he has done nothing wrong. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Bucky stares at him wide eyed. He survived seventy years of torture to now flinch away from Steve who is everything good in his life. “No, it was my fault. I was still half asleep, I didn’t mean to…” Rub myself all over you like a lovesick puppy. “to do that.”

Steve frowns tough. “It’s okay to show affection. You did nothing wrong.”

What the fuck, Steve?! Don’t pretend to be okay with it. That was way more than only affection. But if Steve wants to see it as a harmless gesture, Bucky will gladly take it. “Breakfast sounds good.” He changes the topic and gets out of bed.

His friend(!) scratches lazily at his belly and agrees with a grin: “Yep, definitely.”

Bucky’s treacherous eyes flicker down to Steve’s hand scrunching up the fabric of his shirt and revealing a sliver of white skin beneath. He’s quick to rub over his face as if to chase away the last traces of sleep. But the inviting image of sleep-ruffled Steve with his blond hair sticking in all directions and clothed in nothing more than a baby blue shirt and boxers stays stubbornly in his mind. “With you in a minute.” He murmurs and escapes into the bathroom where he can splash water into his face until it doesn’t feel hot anymore and think of unicorns and rainbows instead of Steve muscled body and his warm, soft skin under Bucky’s hands… And now he needs a shower. A cold shower.

When he steps into the kitchen he’s hit with a sweet, slightly burned smell that makes his mouth water and stomach grumble. Steve’s standing with his back to him in front of the stove, busy combining toast and cheese in a pan sizzling with heat. As soon as he hears Bucky sit down at the counter behind, though, he turns around and gives him a strangely tense once over. “You okay?”

Bucky would try to placate him, if his eyes and mind weren’t instantly drawn to the paper plate with a stack of already grilled cheese sandwiches next to the stove by the unnerving hunger he starved himself to in the last week.

[084517:06102014]  
[084517:06102014:user query:status report:Winter Soldier kcal intake (06102014-1w)-06102014…  
                accessing J.A.R.V.I.S….  
                access granted…  
                downloading…  
                                log detail: “30092014-06102014: 10.4 % required amount of kcal“]

Well, it’s not like he isn’t used to starvation. Hydra had their fun with him in the name of science. Experiments without food or water, forced to fight and run again and again every time unconsciousness hit him like a train. The scene stays with him as the plate laden with toast is put in front of him. Memories of countless sniper missions, not moving, not eating, barely breathing. Of punishment deep down in a cell, without light, without warmth, without food for days on end. Until Hydra started to feed him through tubes, because it was more efficient and easier to monitor – and made the Asset dependent as his stomach shriveled up.

“May I eat, please?” The Asset bows its head slightly in submission and fixes its eyes on the handler who looks back at it with an unreadable expression. Could be horror, could be helplessness, could be sorrow. In a mere second it has moved out of the chair and kneeled down on the floor with its hands behind its head to await orders or punishment. It’s not allowed to look up so it can only hear the handler rummaging around, walking away and coming back to sit down in front of it with a small book he begins to read out of.

“Why can’t a leopard hide?” Before the Asset has time to think of an answer to the random question, the handler continues: “Because it’s always spotted.”

The Asset lifts its head and looks at the man in baffled bewilderment.

“Why don’t dogs make good dancers? Because they have two left feet.”

“What?” Bucky gasps in disbelieve and hesitantly takes his hands down. “Fuck!” He swears as he realizes what he did and draws a hand through his hair to have a sensation to hold onto. “You’re not-” Hydra. Bucky doesn’t have to beg for food or risk getting beaten up for expressing hunger. “Bloody, fucking hell.”

“I’ll take the swearing as an improvement.” Steve says with a critically lift eyebrow. “Wanna tell me what just happened?”

“No, I wanna eat.” Bucky deflects angrily and gets up to grab for two toasts at once, wolfing them down barely tasting them.

After he finished his fifth one he has calmed down enough to say: “Thanks for the breakfast and the… bad jokes.”

Steve smiles faintly as he nibbles at his own cheese sandwich. “You know, you can talk to me about anything. I mean it, anything.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says briskly and stuffs his mouth full with another sandwich.

“But you’re not gonna do it.”

“Nope.” And another sandwich even though his stomach starts hurting.

After a while Steve softly asks: “Would it be okay, if I ask Sam to come over later? Maybe you could talk to him? He works with veterans, people with PTSD and the likes. He’ll know what to do.”

At that Bucky looks at him with a blank face, hiding the horror beneath. Steve has given up on him. He thinks Bucky’s broken. He’s going to hand him off to someone else and Bucky won’t have that. “Hydra liked to starve me and have me beg for food.” He confesses with bitterness and doesn’t know who he’s angry at at the moment. At Steve for pressuring him into admitting he remembers things, at himself for falling back into conditioned behavior, at Hydra for taking away his humanity.

“Okay, thank you for telling me. So what can we do to avoid another episode?” He wants to know with in a weird responsible adult way.

Bucky can’t help but be mean to him. “Maybe just order me to fucking eat something, if I plan on starving myself to death again.” He’s pretty sure Steve didn’t do that because the Asset would definitely have followed his order without fail.

“I’m not going to use the conditioning Hydra forced on you if it’s not absolutely necessary! I would have asked Doctor Cho to give you an IV if you’d taken your hunger strike any further.”

“You’re forcing me either way.”

“Yes, but I’m forcing you like I would any other human and not like Hydra’s toy.”

“I wouldn’t be Hydra’s toy, I would be-” your toy. And Bucky instantly snaps his mouth shut as he realizes he would really do **anything** Steve ordered him to, stopping short only at hurting his friend. This isn’t just conditioning, but also his love, friendship and loyalty to him. Something Hydra never had and often payed for with blood, mutilation or death.

“You would be what?” Steve wants to hear from him.

Bucky laughs self-deprecatingly and looks away. “Anything you’d want me to be.” Because even though he remembers his life before Hydra, before the war, it doesn’t make him human again. He just got to name his final handler himself. If Steve ever leaves him, voluntarily or not, Bucky won’t survive it. He’ll run back to Hydra and beg on his hands and knees for a wipe or find himself a ditch to die in.

“I don’t want to give you orders you can’t refuse.” Steve says silently. ”I don’t want to be your handler.”

“Well, suck it. I didn’t get to choose, you don’t get to choose.” He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t want to see the hurt expression on his friend’s face. But he instinctively knows it’s there and knows he’s gone too far. “Sorry, Steve. I always vent my anger on you and you don’t deserve that. I promise I’ll try harder to get better. Maybe one day I’ll sock your face when you give me an order and we can both laugh about it.”

When Steve moves slightly to open his arms in a wordless offer, Bucky is able to meet his eyes again. This time he doesn’t only take, he hugs his friend back with everything he has.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more bad jokes visit the internet, eh, I mean, [ducksters](http://www.ducksters.com/jokes/animals.php). Because researching bad jokes is part of my awesome research work as well as calculating Bucky’s calorie intake and recommended amount (had to look up Sebastian Stan’s hight, oh poor me... there were photos).


	7. at your side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who are you a danger to anyway?  
> And don’t tell me ‘Hydra’.  
> I would be concerned if you weren’t a danger to them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested song:  
> ["Remain Nameless" by Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5w83Fgv347Q)  
> 

* * *

  


“Hey, wanna go out?” The voice is thin, too far away.

“Hm.” Bucky can’t concentrate enough to give an answer.

“Might be the last sunny day before autumn. We could go to the park.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?” There’s a gentle pressure at his knee. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t-” The Arm hums silent and Bucky is lost in thought again. Stares out of the window to see nothing at all.

“Is it because of the attack tonight? Because of Hydra?”

It took Bucky 34 days to come back, it took Hydra 39 days to attack again. They didn’t get far and nobody was hurt. JARVIS made short work of them, cutting them off, trapping them like mice in a maze.

Of course it won’t be the last time. They will try again and again to retrieve their favorite Asset. He knows too much, has seen too much, is worth too much. He shaped the last century for them and they want him to shape the next. His work a gift to Hydra.

“Everything’s because of Hydra.”

The Arm’s in overdrive, comparing floor plans and blue prints with every camera angle. Calculating an escape from the ivory tower. Hydra needs to die, the heads cut off and the wounds cauterized with sword and fire. No more sacrifices, only violence and anger.

“We’ll find out where their base is and destroy it. You’re safe here.”

“I know.”

When Steve has to leave to join the mission briefing, Bucky gets up and out of the tower in a matter of minutes.

  


* * *

 

He’s alone, a trail of corpses and empty bullet casings marking his path.

He’s standing in front of the Chair and doesn’t know where he is.

The smell of blood and fear and sweat is pungent and familiar.

The alarm blaring through the halls is muffled by tons of earth and concrete. Red light floods the corridors, throbbing in sync with his heart. He didn’t want to trigger the alarm, he didn’t want to come here, he doesn’t want to be here.

_~~“They’re coming for us.”~~ _

Slowly, finger by finger his hands uncoil. He drops the gun and the head, discards them both like superfluous toys and walks towards the Chair. It’s his Chair. It’s his Chair alone. The Winter Soldier is the only one who ever survived its caresses and lives to tell the tale of oblivion. The tale he wrecks his brain for only to come up empty, water running through his fingers. He has never been here. Doesn’t remember the building, the floor, the room. But the Winter Soldier must have been here. This is **his** Chair.

_~~“Run, run as far as you can and hide.”~~ _

He stretches his right hand out until the trembling fingers barely touch the headrest. Feels the material hard and cold under his skin. Follows the curves and edges with his eyes like a stranger, with his fingertips like braille down the lines to the armrest.

What memories did he lose here? Who did he kill to deserve to forget? Why can’t he remember?

_~~“Don’t come out until I get you.”~~ _

It’s not a conscious decision to sit down, never was. He grips his head with both hands like the cold metal clamps that are supposed to be there. Stares wide-eyed ahead, pictures the white coats in the corners of his sight and goes still. So, so still.

Wipe him.

_~~“Do you understand, Natalia?”~~ _

But he still can’t remember. It’s like he’s never been here. He’s missing memories he doesn’t know he should have.

_~~“Run!”~~ _

  


* * *

 

This time he runs when they come for him. Runs out of the building, down the streets to draw out their forces, weaken the base. Takes the car he stole to get here, drives to an abandoned warehouse and waits until Hydra is finally bold enough to attack him. It’s an uneven fight to say the least. There’s only one of him and dozens of them. They have the better equipment, the better weapons, the better position. They know everything about how the Winter Soldier fights.

And that is where they all fail and die.

They know nothing about Bucky.

  


* * *

 

“Hi, I’m back.”

Bucky takes care to wipe the grin off his face before he turns around to greet Steve. “Hey, Steve. How’d the mission go?” He gets up from the couch and walks over to him, giving his friend a careful once over. Bucky made sure the mission was a piece of cake but you never know with this one. Steve would find the needle in the hay stack instantly if that meant he would be the only one to get pricked. And though his uniform is covered in soot and dust and blood his movements don’t betray any pain. “I see there were no roles for the Sacrificing Hero available this time.”

“I only do what I have to do.” Steve defends himself as he strips off the upper part of his Captain America uniform leaving him in a thin black shirt completely drenched in sweat.

“Wow, you sure had your work cut out for you.” Bucky prompts him to elaborate and crosses his arms in disapproval.

“Yeah, had to outrun some goons on motorcycles. Oh, and there was this ceiling crashing down I held up for a few minutes to get the civilians out.”

“Shouldn’t Hawkeye have been able to easily shoot out their tires? And wasn’t the Hulk with you – role model for a green, angry Atlas?”

Steve pauses to think as he takes his boots off. “Hawkeye was helping Black Widow with the explosives and the Hulk was chasing some crazy Hydra scientist with a jetpack, I think?”

“Like she couldn’t have done that just fine by herself. He just wanted to show off his muscles in front of her to get some post-mission-action. And why is the Hulk doing the work Iron Man or Flacon should be doing since they can actually fly and not only jump around like some Chernobyl frog? With such a team you should think things more through, ’til plan Z at least.” He’s ranting, he’s angry. Steve could have gotten hurt!

“We planned ’til C and got to F in the actual fight.” Steve grins like that’s a good thing. “You can’t plan everything. We make it up as we go. In the end everyone survived and I’d call that a job well done.”

But Bucky can’t find it in him to let himself be placated. “Next time I want to take part in the planning.”

“Sure. I’d love to hear your opinion. Maybe together we can talk Stark out of the craziest of his ideas.”

“You want me… a-at your side?” Bucky asks with raised eyebrows, not quite trusting his ears.

The blonde huffs and lets his shoulders sack. ”You thought I’d say no.”

He looks away from Steve’s nearly sad expression and nods meekly.

“You think I want to shelter you, wrap you in so many layers of cotton you’ll never see the world outside again, keep you in my high tower, away from all the pain and violence and sorrow?

Believe me, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But you have the right to be free and make your own decisions. And if you want to stand in the middle of a battlefield against all of Hydra I just wish you’ll want **me** at your side.”

‘Til the end of the line. His mind echoes what Steve said to him two months ago, what he said to Steve 78 years ago, but his lips don’t dare to move.

He’s not supposed to remember.

  


**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly the last fluff from here on out for a long time. If you like Bucky mentally stable to some extend, take this ending and imagine Bucky saying the stucky catch-phrase out loud. Happy End.  
> It's not what happens, though, :P Hydra is still out there and they need to be burned to the ground!
> 
> thank you for reading :)


End file.
